Precious Predilections

Category: Racial Reconciliation

  • Anti-Racist Checklist

    Anti-Racist Checklist

    Full lips, round hips, black skin is where I begin, but not where I end. – Black woman.

    It’s July 2020 and suddenly America has awakened to a realization that Black lives should matter in these United States. Operative word should. Just a few days shy of July 4th and Breonna Taylor’s family along with so many other Black families are aghast with performative measures of alliance and yet no substantive change. No arrests for the police officers who shot her while sleeping. SLEEPING. The message being communicated to Black people hasn’t changed; we say that we are with you, but our systems remain the same. Our systems don’t support your thriving and barely support surviving. Enter the work of anti-racism.

    It is unlikely that anyone can scroll on social media or watch mainstream news in recent weeks without some story or post discussing systemic racism or what it means to be anti-racist. I’m encouraged to see the proliferation of Black voices and the elevation of our story. I am also noticing some fatigue from White allies – we’ve only been having this global conversation on race for 1 month. 30 days. That’s it. When fatigued, it is likely that we will reach for the easiest possible solution and to some that looks like an anti-racism checklist. An insensitive move, in jest, to ask your Black friends to tell you a list of things you should do to be considered anti-racist.

    This ask has come as a direct and indirect proposition. It may sound like “I wish I just knew exactly what to do” or “I just want to show you that I am anti-racist.” A list sure would make things easier. To those beckoning for a list, I agree, that is way easier. However, EVERYONE is more complex than a list of “to dos.” Your most valued relationship can not be deduced to a list. When I think of an anti-racist list, I simply hear another request for comfort. Another request for me to acquiesce to your discomfort. I will not do that anymore. For centuries, the standard for Blacks has been unreasonably high (perfection before dignifying) and the standard for Whites shamefully low (accommodation of comfort).

    Anti-racism does not ask me to shrink my voice, presence, or pride (in my Blackness) for your comfort.

    Precious Jones

    I’m not asking your forgiveness to live in my fullness. For so long I’ve chosen to shrink parts of my ethnic identity to make White people, especially White Christians, comfortable. Always learning more about their culture. Always accommodating comfort. Executing survival tactics such as code switching to climb the corporate ladder and regrettably leaving parts of me buried below as I moved up. For decades there was very little love for this brown skin girl. I’m realizing that choosing between my ethnicity and Christianity is a false choice. I’m certain that Christ wants me to live fully Black AND fully redeemed; not some reduced version of myself. Else, why would God create humanity and allow our eyes to differentiate color variants if there was no intention for us to see the beauty in difference? At what point did beauty become a point of division? Don’t answer that. I repeat. Don’t answer.

    Image from Facebook

    Brene Brown noted, “We either own our stories or they own us. Only when we have the courage to own our history are we able to write a brave new ending to our story.” I own my history of placating Whites at work, in friendship, and at church to make them comfortable with me. I also own that I previously believed that their comfort was more important than my being. BUT NOW (say it with me church)…I’m writing a very different ending for myself. It looks like loving myself enough to move forward with those who pursue justice in word and deed. Who continue to do the personal work of becoming anti-racist. It looks like loving myself enough to end fruitless conversations that originate with interrogation instead of empathy. It looks like CHOOSING. I now realize that as a Black Christian I don’t have to accept every invitation into a conversation on race. This makes me no less Christian. This makes me healthier. This makes me wise. This allows me to endure.

    If there ever was an anti-racist checklist, it would be loaded with nuance and complexity; joy and pain. Not a lot of conditional statements, but real expectations. It might look something like this.

    Anti-Racism Checklist

    1. Hard work
    2. Failure
    3. Love
    4. Ambiguity
    5. Frustration
    6. Anger
    7. Disappointment
    8. Endurance
    9. Victories (small & large)
    10. Lament

    Anti-racism is spelled M-A-R-A-T-H-O-N. It is not spelled p-o-p-u-l-a-r-i-t-y. Neither is it spelled p-r-a-i-s-e. To the adults in the room, we are not in high school anymore. Therefore, our personal metric should not be “cool by association.” No longer permissible to rest on the laurels of having Black friend(s) or coworkers. Stop searching for a list of things to “check off” to arrive at the status of anti-racist. A list of things to “prove” your work is not primarily performative. Don’t exhaust yourself trying to prove who you are. That’s wasted energy. Marathons are about conservation and bursts of energy at appropriate times.

    You know who you are and where you are. If you do not know who you are, honestly interrogate your soul. If you are not where you would like to be, then put in work. And keep working. But don’t ask me for a list. If you do, I will reference the one above. It is the only list I have that counts in this work. A list that allows us to examine our privilege, power, and prejudice.

    White people, if your relationships feel particularly strained with your Black friends or coworkers right now, remember, “ambiguity and disappointment” are on the list. If you feel exhausted, remember, “hard work and endurance” are on the list. If you feel like, you are just not getting things right, remember, “failure and frustration” are on the list. Black people, if you are tired of empty apologies and excessive validation, remember, “anger and lament” are on the list.

    If you have resolved to keep putting in work, then others will benefit from these acts of love and we’ll share in mutual victories. But, if your goal is simply to check off an act of love or a moment of endurance, you’ve missed it. Ball the list up. Throw it away and ask the question, “Do I really want to become an anti-racist or is this all for show?”

    “Search me, O God and know my heart. Try me and know my thoughts.” – Psalm 139:23

  • on the other side

    on the other side

    Imagine what it’s like to be stuck in a reality that dismantles your family, presumes your guilt based on your God-given gear ( I’m talkin’ skin color), and leaves you with a thousand sleepless nights and I will tell you what it’s like to have a Black son, brother, husband, father or friend to undergo the unwieldy American unjust justice system. Key word here is REALITY. For some the account of When They See Us by Ava DuVernay is philosophical and conversations loom around poetic pros and pithy arguments, yet I am unable to escape the striking resemblance to my family’s reality of justice gone wrong.

    So many images from this series are seared into my psyche but none more piercing than that of a pride so deep that produces prejudicial action. This is the stuff of oppressive systems. My stomach turned in knots as I realized that when they (Whites) see us, they remember her (White investment banker brutally raped). How could they not? A judge, who like most, keeps a doting picture of his (White) wife on the bench; a young, White female prosecutor; fill in the _____________. A quick substitution of the rape victim with the face of the one they love and the five black boys on trial are no longer seen as such, but as a wolf pack to protect their loved ones from. This instinctive ability to re-imagine ourselves or a person we love/care about that has been victimized is all natural. Development of my empathetic muscles has come from a place of love through proximity. So, I’ll say it – love differently ya’ll. Love different people from different places of different races with different experiences and I am certain you will no longer see a wolf pack. You’ll see a student, a friend, someone’s brother, a child, a person.

    http://www.glamour.com Atsushi Nishijima/Netflix

    On the other side of incarceration there are parents, siblings, children, friends who experience loss from a system designed to keep so many bound.

    When They See Us not only exposes what happens when justice moves away from righting wrongs to jockeying for power, but also depicts the complex choices of those “on the other side.” It highlights how the pressures of our penal system forces parents to choose between provision and purported protection. Complicated.

    Antron’s dad lost his son trying to protect him. Raymond’s dad would forever regret sending him to the same park where he would be targeted by police. Kevin’s sister is crushed by her 14 year old brother’s tear-filled plea to simply return home and signs a coerced confession. Complicated. Somehow through deep loss and grief, those on the other side are able to beautifully uphold the dignity of those they love. While it is painfully obvious during each episode that whiteness affords many the privilege of a better trial than their Black counterparts, I found a few other lessons embedded within.

    Clinging to normalcy: the return home. The return home is anti-climactic. Fathers unprepared to receive the sons they’ve betrayed by choosing absence on court dates. Sons bravely clinging to normalcy found in the days of old. Holding tightly to the culmination of belongings in a brown paper bag. Dreaming nightly of the return home only to realize that the heart’s deep love must now sync with the awkward moments of freely being present with loved ones as the muscle memory of trauma reminds everyone to restrain affection and the expression of feelings. Trauma makes normal abnormal. We must be gentle with one another.

    We are not okay: lying to survive The penal system can produce a family of pretenders. We all pretend that everything is okay post incarceration. Because how do you even begin to process that all involved have less hope in a justice system that doesn’t value our Black lives or legacy? Korey’s mom would ask him, “What is it like for you in here? Are they treating you okay?” His response was always, “I’m surviving…” or “I’m holding it down…” Responses which are echoed all across America. We may never know the entire story of someone’s trauma. For those that choose vulnerability, let them do so in their own time and in their own way. We must be gentle with one another.

    “I’m just a shadow,” says Korey Wise, one of the exonerated five and victim of horrific beatings. “I’m very empty — 46 years old and empty. At the same time, I’m talking to the kid in me: ‘I got you, baby boy. Nobody can take your story from you.’”

    Real love…I’m searching for a real love…someone to really see me. (cue Mary J. Blige song) It is real love that slowly shifts our gaze beyond bias and towards humanity. Love is less about whimsy, more about choice. It is an outright intention to choose another over yourself. It is sacrificial at it’s core. Consider those on the other side of incarceration (or providing trauma support) and ask yourself, how have I loved them? These parents, children, siblings, loved ones are often left in the shadows. Those who’ve directly experienced trauma and those supporting them need that real love.

    “All I do all day long is LOVE YOU.” — Mother of Antron McCray, one of the exonerated five boys.

  • Neighboring Fear

    Neighboring Fear

    How has fear become my neighbor? Close enough to be a predictor of behavior, yet distant enough for me to ignore when discomfort arises.

    Have you ever experienced a fear so great that it paralyzed you? A fear so magnificent that you felt powerless to respond and instead, you ran? I have. Two weeks ago I learned through an experience that fear not only keeps you from purpose, it keeps you from humanizing. Fear can make us irrational.

    Embarrassingly, a few weeks ago I had the opportunity to respond to a person’s need and comfort them after something pretty traumatic happened; trauma that I induced. Now, pause the tape. A rational  response by me would have been to provide comfort to a “fellow neighbor” in need, but I didn’t. My feet were so mired in fear, that I irrationally did nothing. Press play. I did nothing. Nothing to comfort. Nothing to support. What I did do repeatedly in the moment was conjure up a myriad of reasons why “not responding to my neighbor” was the best idea. I have since made amends with that neighbor, but this life experience left me keenly aware of the power fear has to dehumanize others. The more salient lesson is that I am not exempt from such dehumanizing behavior. A humbling and indelibly heart gripping moment which is unforgettable.

    Fear is rarely disruptive on the grand stage of life, but it lives in the mundane decisions happening minute by minute. It resides in our decision to ignore the outsider and choose our “known friends” repeatedly. It breathes in our decision to avoid eye contact with the marginalized or homeless. It contaminates our ability to see beyond external, often, superficial differences. Fear comfortably rests in our desire to remain comfortable in this life. No new relationships. No sacrificial giving of time or resources. No need to learn about another’s culture. No need for diversity of perspective or life experience.

    As a Black woman, I look forward to the month of February because I’m most hopeful that it will afford me the unique opportunity to enter into conversations with people who are otherwise guarded on conversations of race. Then fear moves into the neighborhood… hello, neighbor…

    During Black History Month, one of the most palpable things a non-person of color might fear is a meaningful discussion surrounding racialized systems which privilege some and prohibit others. Fear of being labeled a racist. Fear of not knowing what to say. Fear of saying the wrong thing. All valid concerns, yet, without such discussions, my history becomes dumbed down to a single speech, a rescued slave, or a heroic conductor. This history, my history, LIVES in the fabric of our education system, the socioeconomic strata, and undoubtedly in me. Black History, which is also American History, has somehow been re-categorized as a single month within the year where people of color can liberally speak of and celebrate their story. A story laden with triumph, not just tragedy. Fear supports an ethos of separate, but equal because of it’s irrationality.

    Fear and love elicit visceral responses. Fear freezes. Love frees.

    – Precious Jones

    Vocabulary.com says that something visceral is felt in the gut. A visceral feeling is intuitive – there might not be a rational explanation, but you feel that you know what’s best.

    I’m not certain that we can live our lives entirely absent of fear, but, I do believe the more we choose love, the more we’ll find ourselves likely to respond to our neighbors in the way that we desire to be responded to. A personal prayer of mine is to love others well and I am still learning how to do this when fear is pounding on my door, demanding re-entry. How can you evict fear and invite love into your community this February? This year? This lifetime? These are indeed the same questions I am left pondering.

    There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love. – 1 John 4:18 (ESV)

  • Their Eyes Don’t Lie

    Their Eyes Don’t Lie

    Current Location: Paarl, Western Cape  South Africa

    Eleven days.  It has been 11 days since I’ve said goodbye to what is familiar.  To the family and friends I love so deeply and taken a step in the direction of a dream.  A dream that I had long buried because I had counted up the number of excuses that would excuse me from believing that even this God can do.  That God can take this flickering dream of freedom and set it ablaze.  Giving me a new level of faith to trust Him in this new land.  I finally had the courage to dig up this decade old dream; South Africa I am glad to return.  The fifth time promises to be epic.  During my time here, I hope in you I find a home.  I can not yet call you that because everything is different.  Everything.  Truthfully, every day I rise with discomfort, but it is  also decreasing slowly.  This discomfort is present because I’m still searching for my voice here.  I spend a lot of time listening and observing and I believe this will be true for a long time.  I’ve learned the most from what people’s eyes have told me.  

    People stare and it’s often uncomfortable.  During my short time here, I have experienced a lot of stares.  Young children staring intently as I enter the school with my friend to pick up her children. Stares from the waitress as I have lunch at a winery with my friend and her extended family.  Stares as I enter church to worship with my friend.  Stares as I open my mouth to speak and there’s the realization that I am not a native isiXhosa speaking South African.  Stares as I have brunch with my friend to celebrate our birthdays.

    Eyes
    Artist, Shanequa Gay

    Every other visit to South Africa these stares seemed bearable because there was an end in site.  My experience of South Africa has been entirely through the lens of my friend of nearly 15 years.  She is the native South African.  White native South African.  Each visit, I have experienced so much of the beauty that the country has to offer because I am friends with her.  Her privilege has opened doors for me.  I am treated differently (even at the airport) when I am with her or her family.  I’ve often said to her that these experiences come with hidden pain because I see myself in the image of the Black South Africans.  From my observation, they are largely treated and viewed as subservient to Whites.  In those moments, I am often torn because I wonder at times how I can be treated so differently than my Black counterparts here.

    Adults may speak words, but their eyes reveal their truth.  When I peer into the eyes of some adults, although welcomed with a smile, they’ve said, “Why would you desire to live here, knowing our history?”   “Now that you are here, just assimilate [bury your blackness].”

    The eyes of adults and children are also trying to process this beautiful, yet complex, friendship I’ve been blessed to have for so many years with my White South African friend. Our differences are clear externally, in personality, and empirically.

    Behind those stares are questions.  I don’t think I am here only to answer a few questions.  I do believe as my friend and I continue to be kind, loving, and equitable towards one another, the questions will dissipate and I hope the stares begin to take on a new meaning.

    Apartheid officially ended here in South Africa in 1994.  I was a student in high school.  My 20 year high school reunion is next year.  The laws changed less than 30 years ago.  Deep seated bias, prejudice, and old mindsets don’t move easily.  What I have learned in my 11 days here is that I must be loving, patient, gracious, unapologetically Black, and fearless.  I know that this dream is not my own.  I am certain it was given by God.  Therefore, I will not fear.

     

    When people are uncomfortable with your presence, you see it in their eyes.  I am pretty sure others have seen discomfort in my eyes from time to time.  I’m thankful to be here; in this place of learning.  I’m thankful that the eyes can tell me a story when people may be unable to express what they really feel.  As I build relationships, I look forward to dialogue.  I am here to love, learn, and live.  In that order.  What a week.

    The adventure continues…

    DSC_0557
    Photographer, Courtney Lary Walton

    “I like friends who have independent minds because they tend to make you see problems from all angles.” – Nelson Mandela

     

     

  • My Messy Beginning

    My Messy Beginning

    Friend, Joy Becker, finishes this blog series sheer bravery.  Her willingness to express where she is on this messy journey of privilege and racial reconciliation is authentic.  I’ve been honored to collaborate and share the perspectives of Mika, Amy and Joy during the past four weeks.  Perspectives unlike my own.  I’ve grown.  I pray that you read this last post with great expectation. Expecting God to speak to you.  I believe He will. With courage, obey whatever He speaks.

    I prefer when my writing culminates into a complete thought, when stories and anecdotes sit with me long enough to reach a finish line. I tend not to hit that Publish button until I’ve drawn a conclusion, tidied things up, and feel a sense of a closure.

    Today is different.

    There is no sense of closure because I’m just beginning this journey. I have so many conclusions spinning in my head I hardly know what to do next. I’m in the midst of so much learning and thinking and questioning; it is terrifying and thrilling. There are days I’d like to rewind the clock to before I wrestled with privilege and injustice. I’d like to unread and unlearn information that has left me wondering how me – this affluent, white, stay-at-home mom in the suburbs of Cincinnati – can possibly be part of reconciliation. Other days I want to shake myself because I spent so many years missing it, looking right past it.

    In the spring of 2016, I began reading the book Seven. Oh, to this day, there are times I wish I could unread it. God knocked the wind out of me within the pages of that book, awakening me to the intensity and responsibility of the privilege I was born into.

    Up until that day, I had thought very little of privilege and what it looked like in my life. I suppose when privilege is your norm, it is easy to miss.  

    But soon I saw it everywhere.

    I saw privilege when I opened my fridge, stared at shelves full of food, and ordered pizza because I didn’t feel like eating anything we had.

    I saw privilege when I put my contacts in each morning because I’ve had resources to correct my failing eyes for nearly 30 years.

    I saw privilege when I handed in my letter of resignation, voluntarily leaving my job to stay home with my children.

    I saw privilege when I was pulled over for a missing headlight and never considered a police officer might treat me unfairly.

    I saw privilege when I freely disagreed with colleagues and never thought twice that my race would be the backdrop for how others interpreted my words.

    I saw privilege when our president was elected because as much as I hate how he speaks of the oppressed, I knew my day to day life would not be much different.

    God put a fire in my gut the week I read that book, a restless stirring I haven’t been able to shake. I can’t stop reading and talking and asking questions. I can’t unlearn that I am in the top 1% of wealthiest people in the world, practically drowning in resources. I can’t pretend educational opportunities are the same for all children. I can’t ignore the hundreds of thousands of refugees who are desperately trying to come to America, and yet live such isolated lives once they are here. I can’t unsee the hate-filled eyes in those videos of Charlottesville.

    This is my messy beginning, my shuffling along, fighting my way through the weeds, with my hands outstretched, asking God, “What now? What can you do with the hesitant offering of a woman prone to wander, resist, and cling to privilege? Can you dig it out by its ugly roots? Can you keep forgiving me? Can you make reconciliation my heart’s cry rather than an item on my to-do list?”

    *****

    During the past year, I have looped through a cycle of emotions regarding the abundant advantages in my life.

    I am ignorant.

    I am overwhelmed.

    I am disgusted.

    I am paralyzed.

    I am afraid.

    I am humbled, forgiven, and obedient.

    Repeat.

    Those first five stages are fruitless at best; sinful if I’m honest, and I need to deal with them as such. I need to call out the sin in my life.

    I am ignorant. That is sin. Ignorance is choosing foolishness. It is looking away from truth and ignoring the mind God gave me for learning and questioning and engaging. Ignorance is choosing oblivion to global and national crises, excusing myself because it’s too sad, it’s too hard.

    I am overwhelmed. That is sin. I am looking to my own ability to solve injustice rather than following the lead of Him who came to change the world through servanthood. I am sinking into defeat, rather than clinging to a God of victory. Nothing is impossible for Him, and to be overwhelmed is to disregard the power of the Holy Spirit who is alive and active in me.

    I am disgusted. That is sin. The Lord needed to bring me to a place of disgust, a harsh realization of my abundant privilege. But to stay in that place of guilt, apologizing for all I have, is to forget the One who gave it to me. He did not accidentally place me in this life at this time in history, and He is not interested in my apologies for living in America, for being white, for being educated, or for succeeding in a career.

    I am paralyzed. That is sin. The reality of injustice is so thick and so heavy, I get lost in it. And then I do nothing. I stay in my neighborhood and in my home, with my conveniences and luxuries. I hang out with people who look like me and think like me. We talk about how thankful we are Jesus came to do all that messy work, but disengage ourselves from real action. Pretty soon, doing nothing in my norm.

    I am afraid. This is sin. Fear will lie to me every time, coaxing me to believe injustice is too much for my God. Fear tells me I will fail if I seek reconciliation. Fear tells me I will say the wrong thing and do the wrong thing. Fear tells me I will put myself in danger and be in over my head. Fear tells me I will upset people and annoy my friends. But God did not give me a spirit of fear, and to believe otherwise is sin.

    I am humbled, forgiven, and obedient. Confronting my own selfishness is miserable, but once each of those daggers have been humbly laid down, I can claim Christ’s forgiveness and move on to obedience.  

    The Bible tells me to feel the pain of others. Be wrecked by injustice. Be burdened. The Bible tells me to pray, and not just on the days after horrific events like Charlottesville, but to get on my knees every day, crying out for the broken and forgotten, repenting from my sins and the sins of this nation. The Bible says to be faithful in prayer, be persistent, keep bugging God to shake my soul and not look away from oppressive systems that have handed me a life of advantage.

    This doesn’t have to be an either/or approach. I can carry on with my daily life and remember the marginalized around me. I can write on my blog about eating dessert in the bathroom, and I can write about racial reconciliation. I can take my children to our community pool where they see dozens of children who look just like them, and I can take them to a church where they are the racial minority. My husband and I can celebrate special occasions at overpriced restaurants, and we can volunteer with the Cincinnati Refugee Resettle Program. I can go to the gym to teach Zumba classes, and I can learn to correctly pronounce the names of the colored women in my class, not just the white students. I can talk with my girlfriends about curtains and crockpot dinners and playdates, and we can talk about teaching our children to stand up for others. I can read Real Simple magazine and I can read about how to love my friends of color well. I can pray with my children for God to heal their owies, and I can pray with my children for God to awaken their eyes and hearts to those who need love.

    This isn’t a checklist. It isn’t more to add to my plate. It isn’t one or the other. It is awareness. It is courage. It is a transformation of my heart to move past the years I spent desiring peace and wishing well to those on the sidelines.

    Jesus spent His life on the bottom rung of the ladder. He surrounded himself with the powerless, the outcasts, the bottom dwellers, the marginalized. By his own choosing, He never made it up past that bottom rung. But I was born on the top rung; I was born into a life so far from Jesus. White. American. Middle class. Educated. Excess everything. It is a life so many long for, but it is a life that has proven to be my greatest hindrance in knowing the true Jesus. It is so far from the Savior who said He was “close to the brokenhearted” (Psalm 34:18) and that “the highborn are but a lie” (Psalm 62:9). There is such a distance from me and the man who constantly cared for the widows, the orphans, the poor, and the needy. It is so much harder to “seek justice and encouraged the oppressed” (Isaiah 1:17) from up on this top rung.

    It’s ironic how you can read something a dozen times and always hope someone else is taking it to heart. How did I miss it?

    In every corner of the Bible, God is screaming, begging, pleading, urging me to love mercy and justice, to care for the last and least. If I’m going to believe the Bible is the Word of God, then it seems God is obsessed with social justice, and He asking me to stay engaged and join Him.

    This is my messy beginning.

    *****

    A note from Mika, Amy, Precious, and Joy:

    It has been a joy to share our hearts with you over the past month. The four of us have each been challenged, convicted, and inspired. We have each prayed earnestly for our readers, and for ourselves asking God to shake some souls and spur on conversations that would bring Him glory. We would love to end this series by praying for our nation, together pleading with God to heal and restore.

    Oh Jesus,

    We come before You with our mess. We acknowledge our sin and repent from it. We need You to do your thing. We need your power to bring change because we know we are powerless without You.

    I pray, God, that You would heal our nation and bring us to racial reconciliation. I pray that our hearts and minds would be changed and that change would lead to action. May our hearts break for the damage white supremacy has caused in our nation – that we would see it for the sin it is, and commit to not being complicit in it. I pray we would move outside our comfort zones, invite people into our homes that don’t look like us, and build relationships in an effort to reconcile.

    I pray America would become comfortable with being uncomfortable and no longer shy away from our horrid past. I pray we would know that racial reconciliation is not simply a good option; it’s important to You. May our hearts remain pliable for You to mold and change; performing open heart surgery if necessary to make us into a people that not only embodies the ethos of reconciliation, but the life style. May our days be less comfortable and more courageous.  May our love for You, Jesus, cause us to actively love our neighbors well.

    I pray we would lay down our privilege to serve and to see. I pray we would open our hands and our eyes. We are in need of Your grace and Your grit to do and hear hard things. Lead us, Jesus. Please do exceedingly above what we ask.

    Amen.

    Chains fall

    Fear bow

    Here, now

    Jesus, you change everything

    Lives healed

    Hope found

    Here, now

    Jesus, you change everything

    Lyrics from Holy Ground

    About the Author

    Joy

    Joy Becker is a wife and mama living in Cincinnati, Ohio. She recently resigned from a twelve-year career as a literacy coach and first grade teacher to become a full time stay-at-home-mom with her two young darlings. She is a lover of new notebooks, October, and goat cheese, and a hater of traffic, scary movies, and overcooked asparagus. You can peek even further into her love for Jesus, food, motherhood, and friendship over at 44 & Oxford.

  • Miseducation of Privilege

    Miseducation of Privilege

    As a Black Christian woman I have more anxiety on the Sunday or Monday following tragic events such as the #Charlottesville attack because the work of racial reconciliation is exhausting.  The Sunday following Charlottesville (which happened to be less than 24 hours later), I remember being hopeful as I entered church that I would regain some of my sanity.  At least a little bit.  Thinking to myself,  this Sunday at least one non-person of color would come up to me and legitimize the concern I privately expressed to many.  I recounted the personal conversations held following the election of our President regarding his rhetoric and lack of empathy for non-whites.  At the time, I shared that I thought his views would give credence to those who held extremist and racist views to become hyper-visible and less concerned with “hiding” their views or their faces.  We witnessed that in #Charlottesville.

     

    This was not a moment of wanting to be right.  This was a moment of wanting to be validated.  I wanted to feel sane, if only for a moment.  The context here is that I have spent countless hours listening, sharing, and praying with congregants and colleagues as we earnestly look to live reconciled.   Yet, I exited my phenotypically diverse church that day without a single conversation or acknowledgement from a white person.  I exited with increased ache in my heart.  I exited wondering how many more Sundays will I sit in this pew and wrestle with the passivity of privilege and the tone policing of my voice. I then hoped for a face to face conversation, text, phone call on Tuesday, Wednesday, or any day.  It did not occur.  Exhaustion enters stage right.

    After reflecting on Amy’s blog, How Do I Handle My Privilege, and her compelling question at the end which asked ‘What privilege do you have, and how can you use it to serve the underprivileged?’  I stumbled upon a revelation.  

     

    In the United States of America, privilege has been a silent teacher for hundreds of years.  Privilege, white privilege, for those who possess it, has taught that good things will come to them simply because of who they are – even if that good thing is racial reconciliation.   

    Many would argue that hatred is a learned behavior.  I’d contend that just as hatred is taught, so is the passivity of privilege.  It is mostly taught without using words.  Privilege by its very nature is passive.  It demands absolutely nothing of its possessor. It teaches its possessor to protect it at all cost.  Privilege indirectly teaches that if one desires racial reconciliation, then it will be achieved by simply waiting for the “perfect, comfortable, opportunity” to have a difficult conversation, ask an awkward question, or get to know a person outside of your ethnicity.  Privilege has written thousands of history books and passed hundreds of laws. And with events like #Charlottesville, it waits patiently to reconcile.  We’ve been miseducated, and the western church has been an active pupil.  

    Miseducation definition: a wrong or deficient education

    Racial reconciliation is costly.  It takes work.  

    Many desire racial reconciliation through a five-step process or a “quick read.”  I’ve had countless people ask me to give them a resource to navigate this difficult and messy space. For instance, there’s a local church in our city that offers a fantastic six week workshop on race which creates a safe space for people in the community to listen to one another, grow in empathy, and dialogue.  However, I’ve encountered many who’ve been content with attending this six week session and reference this as their “work” in racial reconciliation.  I commend people for attending; however, when this session ends, the work of racial reconciliation doesn’t.  If the only desire is a resource, racial reconciliation may not be realized.  It happens over time through empathy, honesty, contrition, and proximity.  Get close. Get uncomfortable. Get honest.  

    If the American church desires to really model racial reconciliation, the Church must re-educate itself.   Learn from Black folks.  Listen to Black folks.  Lament with Black folks.  Let Black folks lead.

    I don’t want a racial reconciliation that demands more of one follower of Christ than the other.  I pray that my encounter on the Sundays following tragic events are less anxious and more intentional.  As Amy stated in the previous blog, may we be known by what we lay down, rather than by any privilege we hold high.  

    As a follower of Christ, I remain hopeful that racial reconciliation will occur in earnest as I continue to engage in uncomfortable conversations, love others where they are, and speak truth to power.   I’m encouraged that others are doing the same.  I have not thrown in the towel on racial reconciliation.  Each day I hold tightly to the hope I have in Christ, anchored by the reality of my desperate need for Jesus as I do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with my God.  

    Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends. – John 15:13

    Maybe the first act of laying down one’s life is to lay down the passivity of privilege.

    As we lay down our respective privilege, I pray that we build authentic relationships across multiple ethnic groups, help restore broken communities, and recognize systems that perpetuate marginalization for disadvantaged groups. May we use our power, resources, and influence to tear these oppressive systems down; decision by decision. Racial Reconciliation, like sanctification (process of becoming more like Christ), is worked out daily.  It is not a one time act.  It is a lifestyle.  

    The church has been “waiting” for racial reconciliation for too long.  Let’s intentionally give differently, life differently, and love differently.  Not just in words, but in lifestyle.

    May privilege be ousted as primary instructor in the work of racial reconciliation and be replaced by empathy that leads to action.

    “He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?”  – Micah 6:8 ESV

  • How Do I Handle My White Privilege?

    How Do I Handle My White Privilege?

    In this blog, Amy Seiffert shares her authentic perspective on privilege in a vulnerable way.  Amy and I are participating in a collaborative blog series  with other women where we will share our perspective on privilege and racial reconciliation.  Our collective prayer is that as you journey with us your heart will be open to what God wants to reveal to you.

    “Life’s most persistent and urgent question is: ‘What are you doing for others?  — Martin Luther King Jr.

    My name is Amy and I have white privilege. I was born into a white, middle class, educated family. I got a college degree and married a white male who also has his degree and is now a small business owner. We have three kids and reside in a predominately white neighborhood in a college town.

    I deeply miss the diverse relationships I had in high school; we had various cultures, religions, and race in my friend circle. Korean, Black, Indian, Arabic, Mexican, White, Jewish, Hindu, Christian. I miss recognizing and celebrating diverse friendships, having the weeds of prejudice pulled from my white privilege perspective, and raising my children with a colorful and beautiful view of the world.

    I miss the daily academic environment where the table is set to have hard conversations. We had many respectful and robust discussions about our distinct heritages. We not only talked, we were in each others’ homes. I loved the food, the practices, the clothing, and the family life of my friends who were very different from me.  My family now continues to cultivate relationships with other races that are around us, but we would love to – we need to –  cultivate more. The richness of other races in our lives grows such beauty, humility, understanding, joy, and hope. Our soul-soil is in a great deficit when we close it off to any kind of vital diversity.

    Privilege, according to the oxford dictionary, is: “a special right, advantage, or immunity granted or available only to a particular person or group of people.” Privilege can feel as obvious as our skin color and as subtle as our literacy. Even right now, if you are reading this blog, your literacy gives you advantage. I absolutely amen “education is a right, not a privilege” – but we can agree, for those who can read, there is an absolute upper hand.

    And today, as I come together with four different kinds of women, writing four diverse kinds of blog posts about privilege, race, ethnicity, reconciliation, fears, hopes and dreams – we also have one common denominator:

    Jesus.

    I sit humbled and thankful that King Jesus is King of a colorful Kingdom. His rule and reign is one where every knee will bow and every tongue will confess that He is Lord when it’s all said and done. “Every” being the game-changer. We will not be segmented under His rule, we will come under one allegiance, and we will all bow down on the same, level ground next to the cross.

    “After this I looked, and behold, a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands,  and crying out with a loud voice, “Salvation belongs to our God who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb!” And all the angels were standing around the throne and around the elders and the four living creatures, and they fell on their faces before the throne and worshiped God… — Revelation 7:9-11

    King Jesus had stunning leadership regarding privilege. He was enthroned in glory, fully God, crowned in all comfort. And He laid it all down. He put down His rights, His throne, His everything. Nothing was taken with Him when He took up human skin and moved into the neighborhood. Paul explains this beautifully:

    “Think of yourselves the way Christ Jesus thought of himself. He had equal status with God but didn’t think so much of himself that he had to cling to the advantages of that status no matter what. Not at all. When the time came, he set aside the privileges of deity and took on the status of a slave, became human! Having become human, he stayed human. It was an incredibly humbling process. He didn’t claim special privileges. Instead, he lived a selfless, obedient life and then died a selfless, obedient death—and the worst kind of death at that—a crucifixion. — Philippians 2:5-8 MSG

    It is tempting to forget that this is GOD who lived this way. Setting the pace for the good life, He set aside the privileges of deity and took on the status of a slave. He took up a towel, got down on His knees, and washed grimy feet. He served his heart out, to the point of death.

    And so when it circles back to us, to me, I have a big question to answer: What do I specifically do with my white privilege? I often freeze just thinking about my advantages, I feel guilty about them, or I hide them because I don’t know how to handle them well. I want to weed out the prejudices in the garden of my heart and sow seeds of racial reconciliation; I feel sad and embarrassed when I find incongruities in my soul. Who can help us in handling our white privilege?

    Praise be to God! If we take our cues from the King, we will find the answer. We don’t have to struggle or hide or be perfect with our privilege. Like Jesus, we simply lay them down to serve.

    After some soul-searching, just one of the ways my entire family (kids included) can lay down our white privilege and serve the underprivileged is being a Licensed Foster Care Family. Before you object in your heart and think “that’s for saints” – please reconsider. Those who foster are not saints, they simply have a safe home. The requirement to foster is very basic: a safe environment.

    At different times this past year, we have laid down our routines, our comforts, our possessions, and had children in our home for short periods of time (we have done short-term Respite Care), giving a sweet child (we’ve housed hispanic, black and white children) a safe place to be in the middle of insanity. In the middle of abuse. In the middle of drugs.

    Do we lay aside our white privilege perfectly? Absolutely not. Do we try to by faith? Yes. Even if it’s the size of a peppercorn. This is the way King Jesus lived, always by faith. He came down by faith, He laid aside everything by faith, He died by faith – faith in the resurrection to come.

    I often have the famous phrase “With great privilege comes great responsibility,” running through my mind. And I can freeze. But, friend, if you also freeze – let’s unthaw together and simply serve. Let’s serve in as many ways as we can. Serve in little ways and great ways. Serve with our voices when we see injustice and serve with our actions when we see helplessness. Serve using our strength for the weak and leveraging our power for the vulnerable.

    What privilege do you have, and how can you use it to serve the underprivileged?

    May we be known by what we lay down, rather than by any privilege we hold high. 

     

    About the Author

    Amy

    Amy is a wife of 17 years and mom of 3, who never thought she would love raising her family in a small college town. She works at Brookside Church as the Director of Outward movement and has the privilege of occasionally preaching. Amy loves tennis, ice cream, and making beautiful things . In between diapers changes, laundry, and soccer practices, she writes, blogs, speaks, and is working on her book on motherhood.  She has been in a monthly book club for 17 years and cannot believe Oprah has not brought them on her show. Amy inspires, teaches and humbly relates to the mystery and messiness of life. She tells all at www.amyseiffert.com.